


Like a Peach, Careful 'Cause I Bleed

by raiining



Series: Sweet as a Peach [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, M/M, Mention of childhood sexual abuse, dom!Phil, sub!clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton has so much potential, it's staggering.  Right now, though, he's just a mouthy sub.  Phil's job is to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Peach, Careful 'Cause I Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to Ralkana for cheerleading me on this and desert_neon for doing the beta. THANK YOU LADIES!! As always, you make everything better :)
> 
>  
> 
> Please note: there is mention of underage childhood sexual abuse.

"I'm going to put you down, Clint. Is that okay?"

When the man fails to answer, Phil holds his gaze. Barton is the first to look away.

"Fine, fuck. Whatever."

"Red, yellow, or green, Agent?"

Barton's face screws into a scowl, but he complies with the question. "Green."

"Okay," Phil answers, finally allowing himself to step in close. Barton's been steadily escalating past 'irritation' and into 'outright insubordination' for the past five hours now. He's wound tighter than a drum, and Phil has finally had enough of it.

Phil lifts his right hand and touches Barton's cheek, the skin smooth and softer than it looks. Barton's eyes flutter closed and he pushes his head into Phil's hand, tactile evidence of how much he needs this. 

There are those at S.H.I.E.L.D. who doubt that Barton's a sub. Phil's never been one of them.

Keeping his right hand gentle, Phil buries his left into Barton's hair, fingers tightening on the short strands. He tugs down just hard enough to hurt. "On your knees," he orders softly.

Barton goes without a sound, folding gracefully to the floor. He's already removed his thigh holster and combat boots, moments after throwing his jacket onto the cheap safe house sofa. He'd meant it as a 'fuck you' to protocol, Phil's sure, but right now it means there's nothing digging into Barton's legs as he sinks to the floor. His hands clench once at his sides and then relax, falling away from the cargo pants he's been fiddling with for the past five hours. Phil feels an almost physical sense of relief – there's a snap on the pocket that Barton's been playing with, and Phil had almost lost his legendary aura of self control after hour three of _click-clack-click_. 

He hadn't, of course, because if there's one thing Phil loves, it's a challenge. Still, it'd been close.

Barton's halfway down, but he's still tense. Phil can see it in the line of his shoulders and the angle of his neck. He steps in closer, putting his thigh right next to Barton's head, and pulls until Barton's cheek rests against Phil's leg.

"Shhhh," Phil soothes, rubbing circles into the skin behind his ear. "I've got you."

Barton whimpers, leaning into Phil's thigh. Phil keeps the tension on his hair, using the pain to anchor him down. He starts to swipe his thumb across Barton's jaw and slowly synchs the motion to Barton's breathing. 

In and out, in and out.

Phil knows he's following him down – Barton's descent into subspace is pulling Phil's brain into that place where it goes when he's engaging his dominant side. He lets himself slide into that headspace. It sharpens his instincts, lets him know how long Barton needs the tugging on his hair and when Phil can start to let go. 

It takes longer than Phil would have guessed, but eventually Barton is fully down. Phil gently loosens his hold, turning his hand so his nails scratch instead along Barton's scalp. Barton's head wobbles, his neck fully relaxed. His mouth falls open and Phil can see him breathing. 

They stay there a minute. Phil can admit to himself that this feels good. He'd been reluctant when Nick had approached him about taking Barton on. The sub was developing a reputation at S.H.I.E.L.D. and Phil had listened to Jasper complain a time or two. Despite the plea bargain that stipulated Barton be collared if he wanted to avoid jail, the sub has never stopped resisting the hierarchy at S.H.I.E.L.D. He fights subs, doms, and neutrals, pushing against everyone and everything that tries to hold him down. 

Phil's read his file from back to front and back again. He knows that Barton's resistance is well earned. He self-identified young, his stint with the circus removing him from formal education about the time when he would have been tested. The rules about uncollared subs had been more stringent in those times – if he'd been caught, he would have been forcibly collared and put into the system. Anyone found harbouring an uncollared sub would likely have been arrested on charges of endangerment. The fact that he was a minor would have mattered less than that he was a sub.

Barton might have been better at hiding his true nature back then, but Phil thinks that too long on his own, without a safety net, has changed him. Subs _need_ to submit – it's part of their nature. Phil knows that he starts to twitch if he's not allowed to indulge his dominant side. His drive to take care of people, to protect them, means he starts micromanaging if he's benched for too long.

He can only imagine what it's been like for Barton – forced to hide his entire life, unable to have more than one-night stands for fear of being turned into the authorities. By the time the laws regarding uncollared subs were amended, Barton had already amassed a significant criminal record. That meant when he _was_ finally caught and captured – something that had more to do with the three criminal organizations gunning for him then the diligence of S.H.I.E.L.D., Phil thinks – his only option other than jail had been a collar.

Phil knows that S.H.I.E.L.D. is the best place for Barton. He'll be supported here. S.H.I.E.L.D. has already started training him, taking the rough diamond that is his aim and his uncanny intelligence and slowly but steadily polishing it into a rare gem. When that process is complete, Barton will be spectacular. His potential is blinding.

But that's all it is – potential. At the moment, Barton is still a rough-around-the-edges mouthy sub, his above-average aim countered by a cocky attitude and a penchant for disagreeing with orders. The combination means that most handlers at S.H.I.E.L.D. refuse to work with him, which has landed him on Phil's plate.

It's Phil's job to temper those rough edges. He needs Barton to trust him, but trust takes time. For the moment, he'll settle with Barton calming down for a minute or two. 

Barton is starting to droop against Phil's leg. He's probably been down long enough. 

"Clint, I'd like to move you towards the bedroom, now. Can you do that for me?"

Barton nods, probably too far down for words, and starts crawling in the right direction. Phil hadn't specified hands and knees, but he's pleased to see it. Barton looks like a model out of _Good Subs Weekly_ , his head down and gaze on the floor. He stops when he reaches the bed, kneeling, and Phil doesn't hesitate to praise him.

"Good, Clint. You're being very good for me. Now, up on the bed, please. There you go."

It takes a moment to get them arranged. Clint seems to think he should be at the foot of the bed, and Phil has to specify that he lay with his head on the pillow. Phil turns them so that he's the big spoon and Barton the little. He runs his hands up and down Barton's arms, anchoring him, keeping his voice a low, soothing drone.

Barton sighs at the touch, melting into the cheap polyester covers as if they are Egyptian cotton. Phil can admit that he's gorgeous like this. His rough beauty is on full display, that toughened exterior softened. Phil feels himself growing aroused, and carefully angles his hips away from Barton's rear. That's not what's going to happen here.

This is comfort care only. Phil's libido tries to argue with him, citing the S.H.I.E.L.D. code of conduct, which states that as a level seven agent within the organization that has collared Barton, Phil is explicitly _required_ to take care of him – mentally, spiritually, and sexually.

This, however, is neither the time nor the place. He'll hardly garner Barton's trust by jumping him at the first opportunity. That's a conversation they'll need to have another time, when Barton is fully within his right mind and Phil is thinking with more than just his dick.

Barton's breathing is starting to even out into sleep. He's clearly exhausted, and after five hours of relentless activity Phil doesn't blame him. Phil knows that not every sub likes to sleep while they're down, though. He's had subs who've told him that it gives them vivid dreams, and knowing Barton's history that could mean nightmares. 

"I'd like to bring you up, now, Clint,” Phil says into his ear to start the process. “Slowly, okay? Focus on the sound of my voice."

Barton stirs in his arms. Phil changes the rhythm of his stroking, altering the tempo, and keeps changing it as Barton starts to come up.

"There you go, nice and gentle. Come up for me, Clint. That's good. Can you open your eyes for me now?"

He can. Phil lifts himself onto one elbow so he can watch Barton's face, make sure that he's coming up slow and not at risk of a sudden case of sub drop. He doesn't know the last time Barton let go like this, but he's willing to bet that it's been a while. 

Barton blinks a couple of times before focusing. He licks his lips, glancing up to where Phil is watching him. He swallows. "Hi."

"Hello," Phil says, smiling. "How do you feel?"

"Um, okay I guess," Barton answers, still sounding out of it. “You aren't going to – ?” He gives Phil a look he can't interpret.

“I'm not going to... what, Clint?”

Barton blinks heavily. “Never mind.” 

He moves to roll away, but Phil doesn't think that's a good idea yet. Barton's still pretty out of it. "I'd like to continue holding you, if that's okay?"

Barton bites his lip. Phil realizes his mistake and changes tactics. "I'm going to keep holding you. Tell me how you feel about that – red, yellow, or green."

Barton relaxes, some of the tension that had been accumulating in his shoulders easing out. "Green," he says, closing his eyes. 

Phil nods and relaxes his elbow, lowering himself back down onto the bed. He alters the tempo of his stroking again, easing back into a regular rhythm. He gives Barton the time he needs to come completely out of subspace. It takes a while. Phil seriously starts to wonder if Barton's allowed himself to go down at all since being recruited into S.H.I.E.L.D. 

Eventually, Barton rolls over onto this stomach. He buries his face in the pillow. "Thanks," he says, the words muffled. 

Phil chuckles. Barton looks like a sulky teenager, upset because someone said he needed a nap and were proven right. "You're welcome. I'm going to move to the other bedroom now."

Barton shrugs, still not looking at him. Phil goes. The safe house they're staying in is a simple bungalow, with a small kitchen, living room, bathroom and two bedrooms. The floor plan is open, but the bedroom doors can be closed. He walks to the next room and changes into his sleep pants, hanging his suit up in the bathroom. It's wrinkled, but salvageable. He'll iron it in the morning after his shower. 

Phil peeks in on Barton before heading to bed. The other man hasn't moved. Phil thinks about insisting that he get changed, but decides to let him be. He looks comfortable, no longer the strung out, tightly wound man Phil had packed into his company car several hours ago. 

Phil turns off the lights and gets into bed. If the rest of the mission goes this smoothly, he'll be well pleased.

 

*

 

"What the hell were you _thinking_?!"

Phil is trying not to shout, but he knows he's already failed. There is just something about Barton that digs under his legendary calm. Maybe it's the way Barton is standing in the living room, fists clenched at his sides as if he's angry, like _he's_ the one whose earned the right to be pissed off today. 

"You said you didn't want him shot. You said our job was to track him. I had a tracking button ready – you _know_ I had a tracking button ready, you _issued_ me the tracking button when we left for this op. I saw the opportunity to plant it, so I took it."

Phil doesn't know what's worse, that Barton thinks he's justified in disobeying orders because his gamble succeeded, or that he even thought of taking such a ridiculous risk in the first place. "You mean you left your nest, walked across the open square, and stuck the tracking button on the briefcase where absolutely anyone could see you! We are not the only organization interested in this individual, Barton! I don't care how distracted the man was by the pretty barista, that does not mean it is safe for you to expose yourself in such an obvious way. Do you _know_ how many snipers had a bead on you while you walked?"

"First," Barton says, holding up a finger, "like you fucking care. Second, there were four snipers in that square and I saw every single one of them, fuck-you-very-much. And third, no one had a fucking bead on me, because I didn't leave my fucking nest!"

Barton's the one shouting now. Phil has a moment to think that he's glad the safe house is on the edge of town. The walls can't be thick enough to hide the volume of this conversation. 

"We are going to break down every one of those sentences and examine them in just a moment,” Phil promises, “but first, what do you mean you didn't leave your nest? You planted the tracking beacon on the briefcase."

Their inability to hack into the CTV feed on the public square was the first indication that someone had beaten them to the scene. Phil had been forced to put Barton on a roof to survey the square while he'd remained behind in the van. The exchange wasn't scheduled until tomorrow, but Phil had wanted to do some preliminary surveillance. 

Phil had requisitioned the tracking button fully intending to use it, but that had been before he'd realized there were several other pairs of eyes on the scene. He hadn't wanted to risk Barton heading in and getting made, not when he could so easily be taken out. When Barton had clicked on his comm to report the button had been activated, Phil had nearly had a heart attack in the van. 

Still, he'd turned on the tracking software and confirmed the button was in place and broadcasting clear before ordering Barton to meet him back at the safe house. 

"I attached the button to a stealth arrow," Barton explains, arms crossed defensively in front of his chest. "One of the see-through clear ones R&D's been toying with for the past couple of weeks."

Phil stares at him. "You what now?"

"I stuck the button to the fletching with a thin piece of adhesive. It throws off the shot, but it's not as if I can't compensate. I aimed for the planter box behind him. The tracking button hit and attached to the briefcase, and the arrow is buried in about a foot and a half of petunias."

Phil resists the urge to rub his forehead. "You couldn't have mentioned this to me ahead of time? Perhaps a half an hour earlier when I was lamenting the fact that we had no way of planting the tracker?"

Barton looks down and fidgets. "I told you I had an idea," he mutters.

"And when I asked for details, you said, and I quote 'Nothing. Never mind'."

"Yeah, well. I wasn't sure it would work."

"And if it _hadn't_ worked? If you'd alerted the other snipers or missed?"

Barton's head snaps up. "I don't miss."

Phil glares at him. “Is that a fact?”

“Yeah,” Barton growls. “That's a fact.”

“And if you had to perform that shot again, could you succeed a second time? A third? A fifth?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Then it sounds to me as if you were pretty damn sure it _would_ work, Agent. Which means that's not why you didn't tell me.” Phil crosses his arms. “You thought I would say no.”

Barton's face transforms into a sneer. “Like you'd have said yes?”

“If you'd asked me? If you'd told me that you were confident you could make the shot, that you could place the tracking button without giving away your location? Then yes, Agent. I would have.”

“Yeah, right.”

Phil feels his anger crystallize. His voice drops into a low, hard tone. “You don't know me, Barton, so I'll let that one slide, but learn this now – if I tell you something, I mean it. If I said I would have let you make the shot, then I would have let you make the shot. You're the best, Barton. That's why S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted you. Part of my job is to trust you to do yours.”

Barton startles. He looks honestly surprised.

“Likewise,” Phil continues, “if I tell you I was concerned for your safety, then let me reiterate – _I was concerned for your safety._ The people who were watching today don't need to be the best snipers in the world to pick off one man walking across a public square. My heart almost stopped when I thought that's what you had done.”

Barton's look of surprise changes to one of confusion. 

Phil sighs. “For the record,” he continues in a softer tone, “I do care. I care about all my agents, doms, subs, and neutrals, because when we're on an op your safety is my number one concern. Any injuries, accidents, deaths – those are on me. My tally is high enough already, Barton. I don't need your name on my conscience.” 

There's more to it than that, but Barton doesn't need to deal with Phil's growing attraction. That's Phil's problem. 

Shaking off the thought, Phil turns and waves a hand over the map of the square they have spread out on the coffee table. “Now, I want you to show me exactly where these other four snipers were located. I want everything you remember about their habits, anything you could discern about their employers. It'd be nice to know who it is that's beaten us to the scene.”

Barton watches him for a moment, seemingly undecided, and then nods. He crosses the room to the map and hesitates only a second before beginning to point out rooftops. 

It takes them an hour to properly debrief. Halfway through, Phil decides their intel is garbage. There are too many players on deck.

“There is no way we'll be able to maintain a silent presence if we go in to retrieve the briefcase as planned after the exchange,” Phil notes when they're done.

Beside him, Barton is chewing on his lower lip. “Not as planned,” he agrees slowly, “but what if we target him here.” He points to a side alley on the map. “No one is watching that angle. There's a coffee shop on the corner; we could do the bait-and-switch as planned, only before instead of after the exchange.”

Phil shakes his head. “What if they open the briefcase to confirm the documents? They'll realize what we've done.”

“Not if we cause a distraction. We do the switch, then you take the briefcase back to the van and I go up to my nest. Only we're sloppy, we get someone to follow us. We wait and watch for the exchange. If it looks like they're going to open the briefcase and check, or if one of the other players attempts to move in, we start shooting.”

Phil considers that. He'd rather try something than deem the op a wash and go home.

“That could work,” he agrees, “but I'd rather we leave S.H.I.E.L.D. out of it completely. Could you take out one of the other snipers, instead? When the shooting starts, do it from their position and leave some evidence of their involvement at the scene.”

Barton nods. “I can do that.”

They debate strategy for another hour, writing contingency plans for their contingency plans. Phil likes to cover every angle, and it's obvious that Barton is used to flying by the seat of his pants. Phil wants him to understand that he has options.

Finally, they're as ready as they'll ever be. Phil stands from where they'd been debating on the couch and stretches. “That's enough for now. We can review it all in the morning before we move, but we're not going to get any more prepared tonight.”

Barton looks like he's going to protest, then obviously thinks better of it. “Okay.”

Phil looks at him. “We still need to discuss your punishment.”

Barton starts. “My what?”

“You disobeyed orders, Barton. I know it worked out in the end, but don't think I've forgotten what you did today. You need to be punished for that.”

Barton glares. The tension in his shoulders that had vanished during the strategy session returns. “So what are you going to do? Whip me?”

Phil sighs. “Obviously not. You need to be in perfect form tomorrow. I'm not going to do anything that will put either you or this operation in jeopardy.” He thinks about it for a moment. “I want you to remove all your weapons and go sit in the corner with your back to the door. I think not having sight lines will be punishment enough. I'll be here the entire time.”

Barton's jaw clenches. “All of my weapons? Are you gonna check me?”

Phil levels him with a look. “I trust you, Barton. If I'm wrong, we have a bigger problem to deal with.” He nods to the corner. “Go. No peeking or I will escalate your punishment. Not here, but when we get back to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Barton throws him a glare, but begins pulling knives from his boots. Phil turns away, both to grant him the semblance of privacy and to show that he is trusting him as promised. He walks over to the small kitchen and starts going through their supplies. They'd eaten on the road before arriving last night, and breakfast had been cereal and milk from the fridge. Phil knows that Barton keeps protein bars on him to eat in the field, but he's probably starving. Phil is.

There's pasta, more than enough for the two of them, and sauce from a can. In the living room, Barton is kneeling, facing the wall as instructed. There's a small mountain of armaments on the coffee table behind him and Barton himself is practically naked, wearing only his cotton briefs and socks.

Phil blinks. “I didn't specify that you had to get undressed.”

Barton, to his credit, keeps his eye on the wall. “You said 'all of my weapons,' sir,” he replies. His words are biting. “Technically, I can kill someone with my socks. I decided to keep these on.”

Phil decides not to argue with him. After all, he isn't wrong. “Very well, Agent. Stay there until I tell you to get up, please.”

Phil busies himself making dinner, the rustle from the kitchen assuring Barton he hasn't left. He checks on Barton occasionally and notes that his shoulders are getting more and more tense. Making him sit with his back to the door might have been a little much. Phil sighs. If he knew more about how Barton reacted to punishment, he might consider changing his instructions, but it's too late now. Phil doesn't tell him to get up until dinner is almost done.

“Okay, Barton. That's enough. Get dressed and come over to the table, please.”

Phil averts his eyes to give him privacy again. Barton doesn't make a sound as he gets up, though he has to be stiff from staying in one position for so long. Even snipers have to move occasionally. 

When Barton finally comes to the table, he's dressed and the pile of weapons has disappeared. He eyes the food Phil puts in front of him. “Is this part of my punishment, too?”

“Ha ha, Barton,” Phil says. “I'm not that bad of a cook. No, this is just dinner.”

Barton's jaw clenches, but he sits down. Phil takes his own plate and sits across from him at the small table. He picks up his fork and takes several bites before he realizes that Barton isn't eating. 

“What's wrong?”

Barton shoots him a look, but doesn't answer. 

“Clint,” Phil warns, letting an edge into his voice. 

Barton's shoulders tense. Phil bets his hands have clenched into fists under the table. “I'm not hungry.”

“Of course you are,” Phil says, exasperated. “It's been hours since you've eaten anything.” When Barton doesn't reply, Phil goes on. “Are you angry because I punished you?”

Barton shoots him a look that says _Duh_ , but then glances towards the empty can of sauce on the table. 

Phil follows his eyes there, and then back to the table. Understanding dawns. “I didn't put anything in the food, Clint.”

Barton glares. His hands are still clenched under the table. “I don't know that. I was facing the wall, remember?”

Phil twists a healthy portion of pasta onto his fork. “I'm eating it, too, in case you haven't noticed.”

Barton flushes at Phil's tone. “Fuck you.”

“I'm sorry,” Phil says, realizing that he is. He's not helping the situation. “You're right, that was inappropriate.” He thinks back. Barton had been the one to open the jug of milk they'd bought yesterday on their way into town, and he'd kept an eye on the kitchen while the fast food joint had prepared their burgers. There's nothing about allergies in his medical file, or any particular kind of fear, but, “Do you have a phobia regarding food you didn't prepare yourself?”

A tick appears in Barton's jaw. “It's not a phobia if it's a reasonable fear.”

Phil puts down his fork. “Has someone poisoned you before?”

Barton looks away. “Not poison,” he says, then pauses. He glances once at Phil as if he's testing him. “Safframate,” he finally admits. 

“Safframate?” Phil echoes, his jaw dropping. “That's a powerful aphrodisiac.”

The look Barton shoots him is pure _No shit._ Embarrassingly, Phil feels himself flush. “I'm sorry, I just – your file indicates that you were independent and on the run after the circus. When could someone have slipped you safframate?”

“Who said it was after the circus?”

Phil's stomach turns to lead. “But you were a _child_.”

Barton snorts. “I was a sub. That's all that mattered. We had big, communal meals around the fire pit. No one had enough food as it was, so we had to share. Safframate doesn't work so well on doms. People used to sneak it into the pot and watch those of us who were subs go out of our minds.”

Phil feels sick. “I hadn't realized.”

“Yeah, well, it's not the sort of thing you put on a resume,” Barton says, his jaw tense. He glances at Phil, then, seemingly coming to a decision, sighs. “I just – ” He looks at the plate of food Phil placed in front of him and then away. “I have a hard time eating something I didn't make myself, that's all.”

“That's understandable,” Phil says gently. He pushes his plate away. “What if we go out? Would that be okay?”

“Out?” Barton asks, bewildered. “We're in the middle of an operation.”

Phil shrugs. “Nothing's going to happen until tomorrow. Thanks to you, we have a tracker on the target. I'll bring my laptop and we'll stay connected to the satellite feed. It's a risk, but – you need to eat, Clint.” He smiles “To be honest, this pasta isn't very good. I'm not much of a cook.”

Barton hesitates, but his stomach rumbles loudly. He grimaces. “Uh, yeah. Sure. I guess so.”

Phil grabs his laptop and both their jackets, barely restraining himself from helping Barton put his on. _Jesus_ , he thinks, forcibly keeping his hands to himself. His protective instincts are in overdrive. 

Barton seems thrown when Phil tells him he can pick where they're going to eat, but his expression soon morphs into one of wicked glee. Phil wonders if he's about to be dragged to a five star restaurant where he'll be forced to spend a couple hundred dollars on little more than an appetizer. Despite this, he can't help but be pleased at Barton's smile. It feels like an accomplishment.

Helping Barton feel comfortable in S.H.I.E.L.D. is his reason for being here, of course, but to Phil, it feels like more than that. It feels... good.

Thankfully for his pocketbook, Barton forgoes the expensive meal and chooses a mom and pop diner instead. The atmosphere is warm, the counters sticky, and the food, when it arrives, is delicious. Phil digs into his lasagna with gusto. “This is fantastic.”

Barton grins happily, his burger already half-way demolished. “I used to come to places like this all the time. First thing to know about a new city, after the airports and the train stations, where are the diners.”

Phil could hold off asking, but he's curious. “Was this with the circus or after?”

Barton shrugs. “After, mostly. That's when I had the money.”

“I'm surprised you and Sitwell didn't get along,” Phil admits. “He memorizes restaurant addresses before every op. I think he knows the location of every taco stand on the eastern seaboard.”

“I liked him,” Barton says, “but he didn't... he wasn't... he's too nice.”

“Nice? He's a bastard. There are sailors who think Jasper swears too much.”

Barton toys with his fries. “He yelled a lot, but that wasn't actually helpful.”

Phil is quiet, but he thinks maybe he understands. Jasper is good with subs, but maybe not someone as fragile as Barton. Clint puts up a tough front, but it's obvious that there's a lot of trauma hidden below the surface. 

They finish their meals, Phil checking his laptop periodically. The tracker doesn't move. They call for the bill and Phil pays. The walk back to the safe house is quiet, but the air between them is comfortable. Phil thinks he could get used to this. It feels good to walk down the street with Barton at his side. He sneaks a glance and finds his gaze lingering on the simple brown leather collar Barton was given by S.H.I.E.L.D. It's nice, but Phil thinks he could do better.

It's a dangerous thought. Phil's been tasked as Barton's handler because Fury's at his wits end, but that doesn't mean Barton is his to keep. 

They arrive at the safe house in silence. Phil opens his laptop while Barton flicks on the TV, and they waste an hour sitting together on the sofa, not saying anything. When Barton finally does get up to go to his bedroom, he hesitates a moment and glances back at Phil.

Phil looks at him. Barton is standing in front of his bedroom door, silhouetted by the cheap sixty watt bulb, and Phil _wants_. It's not just sexual, either. Phil would happily follow Barton to bed and hold him, protect him within the circle of his arms and know that he is safe. 

He shouldn't, though. They're on an active op, and Phil has already burst through too many barriers tonight as it is.

Barton is the first to look away. “Goodnight,” he says, and steps back into his room, closing the door behind him.

“Goodnight,” Phil echoes, wishing he could follow. He sighs and stands up from the couch. He gets changed and climbs into his own bed, slipping between the cold sheets.

It takes him too long to fall asleep. 

 

*

 

The op goes perfectly the next morning.

Their improvised plan works – Phil intercepts the briefcase and switches it out for the replica, and Barton takes out one of the rival snipers without getting caught. Phil scans the documents and emails them to HQ before heading back to the square. Barton throws a smoke grenade into a planter box while Phil keeps an eye on the exchange. When the smoke starts to rise, Phil yells “Fire!” The public bolts and the exchange is concluded before anyone can check the briefcase or the files supposedly therein. Barton makes sure to leave a few more grenades behind as evidence implicating the sniper he took out, and then meets Phil at the van. 

They drive back to the safe house grinning, which is why it's even more confusing when Barton picks a fight the moment they step through the door. 

“I'm taking the first shower. I fucking earned it. I've got blood all over me.”

Phil frowns. He can't see any blood, and Barton appears to be moving fine. “Are you hurt? What did – ”

“Nothing, fuck, I'm fine,” Barton says, waving off his hands. “The guy I jumped bled on me, that's all. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Okay,” Phil tells him, slowly. “You shower. I'm going to arrange our exit.”

Barton makes a face, but goes. Phil confirms the documents he scanned were emailed appropriately, and assures HQ the op went fine. He goes online and books their flight home under their aliases, and then he waits. After another ten minutes, he knocks on the bathroom door and tells Barton to hurry up.

The shower switches off, but Barton takes forever getting out. When he finally does go to his bedroom to change, he refuses to pack.

Phil finds himself growing irritated, but more than that, he's confused. “Let's go, Barton. Pack your bags and hurry up.”

“I'll pack my stuff the way I _want_ to pack my stuff! Or are you going to order me on my hands and knees to do that _too_?”

Phil stares at him. “We're going to miss our flight.”

“I don't _care_ about the fucking _flight_.”

“Okay,” Phil says, letting an edge seep into his voice. “Everything stops, right now. What's going on?”

Barton crosses his arms over his chest. “Nothing,” he spits. 

“Don't take that tone of voice with me,” Phil warns. He mentally reviews the past half hour. “Are you upset that the op is over?”

“I'm not upset about fucking anything, Coulson. Look, I'm packing my bag, okay? Let's go.”

“No,” Phil says. “That's not good enough.” 

Barton pauses half-a-step from his bedroom, his back to Phil, hands clenched into fists at his side. Phil looks at the tension in his shoulders. He keeps his voice gentle, but firm. “What's wrong, Clint?”

Barton doesn't say anything. “What can I do to help you?” he tries. There's a hitch in Barton's breathing that says he's on the right track. Remembering what worked the other day, Phil orders, “Tell me one thing we did over the course of this op that you would like to do now.”

That seems to be specific enough to pacify him. Barton drops his head and turns around. He keeps his gaze on the floor, his hands still clenched at his sides. “Can you put me down again?”

“Into subspace?” Phil clarifies. Barton nods his head. “I can,” Phil tells him, “but I think we need to talk about a few things, as well. How about I put you half way down? Would that be okay with you?”

Barton hesitates, but a glance at Phil's face clearly tells him that's as good as he's going to get. He nods. 

“Okay,” Phil says, looking around the safe house. He walks over to the couch and sits, pointing to the carpet at his feet. “Come here and kneel, please. Keep your head down.”

Barton sighs, a full-body release. He sinks to his knees and crawls over to Phil, keeping his gaze on the floor as asked. Phil arranges him between his knees, then puts his hands on Barton's shoulders. He sweeps them up, into his hair, and scratches his nails gently across Barton's scalp. 

Tension bleeds out of Barton's shoulders and he slumps forward. Phil pillows his head on his thigh. 

Phil gives him several minutes, and then asks, “Better?”

Barton nods, keeping his head down. Phil gentles his scratching a little. “Now, tell me what is wrong, please.”

Barton hesitates, so Phil tugs on his hair. “Tell me.”

“The op's over, so we're going back to HQ,” Barton says finally. His voice is quiet, half-muffled against Phil's leg. “I won't be yours any more.”

Phil blinks at him, surprised. “I'll still be your handler, Barton. Fury gave you to me.”

Barton swallows. “Yeah, but, it won't be like here. I won't be... be _living_ with you. It'll just be on ops. I'm usually sent on an op every week or two, with downtime between for training. I'm not going to see you for days.”

“That's standard procedure,” Phil agrees. Barton tenses slightly under his hands. “Of course,” Phil goes on, “when has standard ever applied to you?”

“Sir?”

Phil looks at the sub in his hands. Barton is both everything and nothing like Phil had expected; more fragile, more broken than he had known. He's also more beautiful, both cocky and competent, and damn if the package isn't everything Phil's always desired. 

“Do you want to come home with me, Clint?”

Barton stirs a little. “HQ is home.”

“No, I mean _home_ home. My home. Do you want to come home with me to my apartment, Clint?”

Barton moves to look up, remembers he's been told to keep his head down, and stops. “Do you mean it?”

Phil tightens his hands in Barton's hair again. “What did I say about when I tell you things?”

Barton swallows. “That you mean them.”

“That's right.”

“But I... ” He hesitates. “I don't just want you to take me home because you feel sorry for me, or because I asked.”

Phil smiles. “I'm not. I'm asking you if you want to come home with me because I want you there.” It's so easy to picture Clint in his life. Phil knows what drawers he can clear out for him, what space he can make. “I do think having you live with me is moving a little fast,” Phil admits. “Usually there are a few other things that come before living together in normal course of a relationship, but like I said – when has normal ever applied to you?” He relaxes his hands, tipping Clint's head up to meet his eyes. 

Barton stares at him. “I don't know what those other things are. Dates? Movies? That kind of thing?” His expression turns wicked. “Or do you mean like sex? 'Cause that we can do right now, if that's a problem.”

Phil chuckles. He slips a hand behind Clint's neck and shakes him, just hard enough to make a point. “Oh, you're going to be trouble, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says, and then licks his lips, dropping the cocky attitude. “That's always been my problem.”

Phil rubs his thumb along the soft skin behind Clint's ear. “I like trouble,” he admits. “I'd hardly be in this job if I didn't. I'm not saying you have to stay forever, and I'm not promising that everything will work out, but I'm telling you that I want to try. I want to take you home and spoil you, I want to show you what normal dates are like so you can decide if you like them. And yes, I want to have sex with you, though it will be at the time and place of my choosing. How does that sound?”

Clint swallows. “Perfect.”

“Okay, then,” Phil says, with one last shake. “Finish packing. We have a plane to catch.”

 

 

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Safframate is a powerful aphrodisiac from Anne Bishop's Black Jewels Trilogy. It seemed appropriate to include ;)
> 
> (one day I will write a Black Jewels Clint/Coulson AU. Today is not that day.)


End file.
